


Once

by Wagnetic



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Fever, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mostly hurt, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:27:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wagnetic/pseuds/Wagnetic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now it’s Marcus’s turn to lie panting in the dirt. Perhaps it was his place all along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once

**Author's Note:**

> Set in a movie AU scenario in which Marcus and Esca stay with the Seal People significantly longer and it sends Marcus into an unhealthy kind of subspace.

Marcus shivers despite the heat from the other bodies nearby. Here, he thinks, no amount of heat could ever be enough, though perhaps it’s only the fever that makes the biting chill so strong. Still, the wind and rain are so, so loud as they batter against the tent. Marcus is sure he’s never heard such a noise before, that is, until he thinks of the arena and the way the crowd clamored for blood. Esca’s blood. He remembers the blank composure of Esca’s face and how it was belied by the quick rise and fall of his chest. Now it’s Marcus’s turn to lie panting in the dirt. Perhaps it was his place all along.

Now he can see what a fool he’s been. Once he thought of honor and glory and the triumph of Rome, and those days seem so distant now: a bittersweet dream. He was never made for such lofty things, but he hadn’t known then. He’d still believed he might redeem his family’s name. Such foolishness and delusion. He knows better now. Esca’s taught him better now.

And even in the tent, even now, when he should be resting while he can, his thoughts still cling to Esca. But then, why shouldn’t it be so? Esca is his lifeline, his hope and shield and breath. Esca is his master. To think that once Marcus believed himself to be the man of greater rank! How did he ever believe himself to be in any way superior? Well, now his pride is duly punished. Or maybe this isn’t punishment enough. For the wrongs that he’s done, for the death of Craddoc, his own friend, for the children he robbed of fathers and the wives he robbed of husbands, what punishment _could_ be enough? And Esca is far better to him then he deserves.

Marcus turns over, listens to the rain, thinks of Esca. Thinks of Esca’s hands in his hair, holding him steady. Thinks of Esca’s voice, speaking to him, calling him “Marcus” and not “slave.” Esca, who gives him food and water. Esca, who gives him comfort. Marcus is so very grateful, and yet he still wishes for more. If only Esca would speak to him more, gentle his voice, gentle his touch. Marcus would be so good, so obedient, even more than he is now, if only Esca would allow him to curl beside him so he could rest his head in Esca’s lap. If only Esca would stroke his hair and murmur soothing sounds in his ear. Oh, for that Marcus would give anything, anything at all.

And since he has nothing left to give, he hoards what he’s been given. He’s greedy for Esca. He tries to relive the moments etched in his memory, but it’s never enough. As if he should be given more! It’s not his due, never his due, but if only he could share the warmth of Esca’s arms. He thinks perhaps he would never be cold again.

He knows the dream’s approach before it comes and he braces himself against it, but to no avail. In his mind he is already kneeling before Esca. His mouth is already open, pleading, gods help him. Here is his last trace of Roman pride departing, and the shame is agonizing. At least his head is bowed so he sees only the earth instead of the disdain that must show in the narrowing of Esca’s eyes and the curl of his sneering lips. Marcus knows he should stop, he should go back to the tent, he should do anything but kneel and beg, and the sound of his own voice hurts him when it echoes in his ears. “Just one kiss, Esca, please. Just touch me, just this once. I’ll never ask again. I swear it. Just let me have this one thing to remember.”

The rain that pounds against the tent is cold, and Marcus is cold, but Esca’s hand on his cheek is warm, and the breath against his ear is hot, and the voice that whispers, “soon,” is sweet. And Marcus doesn’t know what the voice is promising, but it’s alright because Esca’s hand is still warm when he reaches his own up to press it harder against his skin. Marcus feels his breath slow into the easy cadence of sleep, and perhaps, he thinks, he needn’t stay lying in the dirt after all.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Point of the Blade](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115452) by [Island_of_Reil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil)




End file.
